Since Then We've Been History
by pickledoatmeals
Summary: He rarely told John that he loves him too, but he knows that John knows, and Sherlock's not fond of reiteration. But whenever he does, he makes sure that John will melt like butter in the middle of a furnace, and a swarm of bees—not butterflies—will buzz annoyingly inside his stomach. Fluff.


**Warnings:** Not beta'd, OOCness, gratuitous fluff(?)

**Disclaimer:** No copyright infringement intended.

**A/N**: I published this a while back as _Scene One—James Dean and Audrey Hepbur_n as a part of the _Guitar Concerto in G Major series_, but I deleted it and republished it this time, deciding that is better off as a oneshot. Republishing just for the heck of it, with a few minor changes. (Title taken from _Scene One: James Dean & Audrey Hepburn_ by Sleeping with Sirens. Great song, great band.)

* * *

**I.**

In his eyes, his partner is the most beautiful creature he has ever laid eyes upon. He loves the way his damp, brown curls stick to his forehead due to perspiration (brought by their earlier activities). He loves the way his swollen heart-shaped lips open and close for air (which sometimes seem to pout on their own). He loves the way his alabaster skin shyly peeks out from the beige duvet (and is, once again, dotted with red and purple marks of varying sizes). He loves the way he writhes under him, the way he arches his back, the way he throws his head back against the headboard when he pounds against him. He loves the way he reverses their positions, the way he roams his calloused hands on the expanse of his skin, the way he bobs his head when he sucks him. He loves everything about him, even his acidic remarks, which leave metaphorical burns on people's persons. He loves him too much for his own good, and he knows that in one way or another, it will be the death of him, and he wouldn't want it in any other way.

**x.x.x.x**

"What?" Sherlock mumbled against the sheets, the sleepy haze still not lifting from his brain.

"I said, when did it start? You having feelings for me and all?" John repeated softly, the smile evident in his voice.

John was facing him, their noses only a hair's breadth apart. He cupped the other's face, smoothing his thumb over his eyes, nose, cheeks, and jaw line. Sherlock continued to get back to sleep, but John snuggled closer, wrapping his arms around his thin waist, tucking his head against his chest.

"You're being awfully sentimental today," Sherlock said, finally giving up his slumber, and kissing John's forehead, "What made you ask that question?"

He played with John's sandy blonde hair, tangling his fingers with the strands. The doctor hummed in contentment, snuggling closer and closer (as if they weren't close enough), sharing each other's body heat, breathing each other's breath, inhaling each other's scent.

In the past nine months, they have become a single entity in two separate shells. Their essences are one, their souls are one, their hearts are one, and it is only in appearance and the law of the Universe that they be two different creatures when their hearts are beating as one. They have come to peel each other's layers, learning a myriad of new things about their partner which they didn't know existed.

"Nothing. I just remembered it," John muttered against Sherlock's neck, "Our first kiss, that is."

"Stop being so maudlin, John. You're not a teenager in a hormonal rampage."

The doctor chuckled. "But it was magical."

The consulting detective scoffed. "Magical? How many teenagers have your associated with today? However, I beg to differ. I'd say that it was, and still is, addictive."

"Addictive? That's kind of a teenager lingo too, you git."

"No one calls me git."

"Except me."

And Sherlock cupped John's face, staring straight into John's eyes. He gazed onto those dark blue eyes with hidden reverence and unspoken adoration. He moved closer, and as their lips brushed, it was magical (as John would put it). It was all extravagant fireworks erupting into the night sky, fountains of exploding water cascading into ornate sculptures; flowers blossoming in the first morning of spring. Sherlock nibbled his lower lip, and it was when the sorcerer's apprentice got hold of his master's magic wand. Sherlock penetrated John's mouth with his tongue, exploring its deepest caverns and crevices, and it was when the apprentice got his first taste of forbidden magic. Sherlock greeted John's tongue with his own, and it was when amorphous streaks of light burst out of the wand, spiralling out of control, leaving a lot of troubles behind. Sherlock warred with John's tongue, wrestling, tackling, pushing, pulling, and it was never enough. Sherlock wanted more, because it was addictive, as he would put it. He sucked his partner's tongue harder, and the contact sparked thunders and sent bolts of electricity coursing through their bodies. It was all teeth and tongue and spit and each other's unique taste. John faintly caught the taste of a drug—("I'll be having a word with you later, young man.")— and was fighting back, teasing, prodding, jabbing, sucking. And like the cocaine his lover was once addicted to, it was never enough. A taste is never enough; he needed it like air, and his body will constantly lust after it.

They broke apart, craving for oxygen, while drinking each other's sight. Their hairs were tousled, their pupils were dilated, and their lips were swollen. Somehow, within the throes of their passion, John ended up straddling Sherlock. He touched his lover's forehead with his, and they burst into giggles, laughing like children witnessing an elaborate prank.

"Jesus, that was a good snog," the doctor said as he rolled on the detective's side.

"It was, and still is, addictive," Sherlock purred.

"And magical," he added, "Cor, we were like teenagers.

They sniggered some more, until John remembered something. "And you never answered my question!"

"What question?" the detective asked, propping up his elbow, and looking at the other.

"Well, when did you start having feelings for me? How the bloody hell did you even develop an attachment to me, with all that 'married to your work' shit."

"Is that so important?"

"Just curious."

"Then you needn't know."

"I need to know. Just like how you want to know almost everything."

Sherlock pulled John into an embrace. "As embarrassing as it sounds, I don't know. I'm foreign to all this emotion and… practise."

John chuckled. "Right. I had the honour of stealing The Great Sherlock Holmes's virginity, didn't I?"

"I may be virgin physically, but not mentally. I am well aware of how the process goes, courtesy of some cases I solved before. It was vital that I learn the process."

"So you really never wank, except for that time when you were fourteen?"

"I was curious that time. And why should I wank? I don't have time for such frivolous activities."

"No wonder you came so hard our first time together."

The detective's face jerked slightly, only to revert to its usually stoic countenance. "I told you, I'm married to my work. I never had any sexual experience before I met you."

"Neither did I. With a fellow bloke, at least."

"But you're aware of the process."

"I was in the army, you know. There are all sorts there. And haven't I told you many times already? My sexual orientation, or preference, is straight-with-an-exception-of-Sherlock-Holmes. Or sherlocksexual."

Sherlock smiled that smile especially reserved for his dearest doctor, that kind of smile that no one else is allowed to see, no one else is allowed to be offered to. It was all for John Watson and John Watson alone.

John buried his face onto Sherlock's naked chest. "I sometimes wonder how people will view us though."

"Does it matter?"

"In a way, yes. Especially my family. I don't know how would they react when they learn that their son is sexually involved with a man. They might approve though, with all that stuff that happened with Harry."

"I repeat, does it matter how people think about us? My family already approves."

"It's your family. I don't know about my family. They're all very understanding, but I don't know why I'm scared. It's just… It's been really hard keeping this thing under wraps. I'm never one for an overly zealous display of public affection, but I want to walk with you hand-in-hand, I want to give you a quick kiss after you finish your deduction spiel, or just kiss you to shut up whenever you're being insufferable."

Sherlock didn't say anything. He just continued on playing with his lover's hair, stroking his back, listening to his heartbeat.

"I never even flirt with ladies anymore, don't I? I wish they'd do the same. Waving them off with 'I'm not interested' or 'I have a girlfriend' doesn't convince or deter them. Now I wonder if I can just pull you to my side and tell them that I'm shagging you."

"John," Sherlock said in that husky baritone, "While it is true that I want to shoot those flirts in the head, I do not see the need of coming out. We are fine in the private confines of our flat. Is there a need for more?"

The doctor pulled away from Sherlock's embrace and looked him in the eye. "I know that this sounds sappy, but it hurts to pretend, to tell the world that you're not mine, to hide in the closet, to deny that 'No, we're not actually a couple'. It's like a part of me dies each time I say no."

Sherlock hummed, kissing John's forehead, and embracing him once more. "Stop being mawkish. The people's suspicions are entertaining enough. Besides, almost everyone thinks that we're involved. Let's not worry about that right now."

John smiled, though Sherlock couldn't see it. Before he drifted to sleep (thanks to his detective's body heat and the duvet's comforting warmth), he mumbled, "I love you."

As the train to Dreamland sped away, Sherlock whispered, "I know."

He rarely told John that he loves him too, but he knows that John knows, and Sherlock's not fond of reiteration. But whenever he does, he makes sure that John will melt like butter in the middle of a furnace, and a swarm of bees—not butterflies—will buzz annoyingly inside his stomach.

**II.**

John has often wondered why Sherlock chose him. How the hell did he ever pick him. He wasn't sure who fell first, but one thing's for sure: they both fell hard. They were looming over the precipice until they tripped, descending down the ravine, until their frames hit the rocky bottom, and their bones shattered into a million fragments. They fell hard for one another, but it was nothing like the unbridled passion younger people have. It was restrained and calculated, but equally maddening.

Like what Sherlock told him on Day One, he was married to his work. He wasn't insinuating anything at that time because he was still straight, but when the infuriating bastard showed up on his new flat after three years of feigned death, the faint stirrings inside him awoke something dormant. It was at that exact moment, when the sight of Sherlock all skin bones (with the addition of blood and bruises seconds later) that he came to acknowledge what his hormones had been telling him for three years.

After the countless explanations and apologies (much to his surprise) and concussions and press conferences, they never talked about it. It was a touchy subject for them, and they never brought it up. They moved back to 221B Baker St (which remained unoccupied and unchanged for three years, thanks to The British Government), and went back to solving crimes together. Most of the public believed the once-disgraced detective's words, but some others chose to remain disbelieving. It didn't matter to them. All that mattered was Moriarty's web was fully eradicated, and they are together once again.

But it wasn't until nine months ago that both parties admitted what they truly felt for one another,

_and the rest is history._


End file.
